Desert Falcons

“No, but we just—”

“Then this conversation is over,” Eileen said, cutting her off. “My father knows nothing about this matter and has nothing more to say.”

Bolan detected an edge of trepidation in her tone. A second later he knew why.

“The government sends a Jewess out here to do their bidding, huh?” Autry’s voice had lowered to a growl. “Figures. You damn Jews run everything.”

Agent Dylan looked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Daddy,” Eileen started to say, but there was no shutting up the old man now.

“Thought they’d send some jezebel to try to trick me,” he said, shaking the flag. “But this is still a free country, under attack by a corrupt federal government that’s in bed with those bastards in the Middle East. I’m standing up for free Americans everywhere—”

“Daddy, please,” Eileen shouted. “Turn around and go back to the house.”

“Aww, let him talk,” Shane said. “All he’s doing is telling the truth.”

Eileen whirled toward the law-enforcement contingent, her extended index finger shaking like a pistol to emphasize her words. “Sheriff Dundee, I’m advising you in front of these reporters and witnesses that we know nothing about this alleged disappearance of any BLM rangers. We are refusing you access to our land without the proper authorization in the form of a valid warrant, and if you wish to speak to us, obtain a subpoena.” She turned and grabbed the bridle of her father’s horse and began walking back toward the big gate with a forceful stride.

One of the uniformed BLM rangers started to move forward, but the well-built guy who had accompanied Autry and his horse to the forefront raised an open palm.

“You heard the lady,” he said. “We have nothing to say.”

Shane, who was standing off to the side smirking, laughed and said, “You tell him, Frank.” With that, he, too began walking back toward the gate.

The BLM ranger balled up his fists and took another step forward, but Dundee grabbed him.

“Let’s not make the situation any worse,” the sheriff said.

The militiaman, Frank, began to walk backward, keeping his eyes on the crowd of police before him. His head turned slightly, and he issued a command for the rest the militiamen to “stand down and return to base.”

“That guy’s had some extensive training,” Bolan said.

“He’s got the moves, that’s for sure,” Grimaldi agreed. “Looks like somebody to step aside from, all right.”

Bolan wondered what the guy’s story was.

He and Grimaldi started to turn to go back to their Escalade when he heard Special Agent Dylan call, “One moment, please, gentlemen.”

Bolan turned. She was rather pretty, with dark eyes and an olive complexion. He estimated her to be about five-seven, 125 pounds, and in excellent shape.

“I’m Special Agent Gila Dylan,” she stated. “FBI.”

“We know,” Grimaldi said, flashing a wide grin. “We heard you introduce yourself.”

She swiveled her gaze toward him and let the faint trace of a smile grace her lips. “Who are you guys? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“That’s because we just got here,” Grimaldi said quickly. “Believe me, we’re very memorable.”

Bolan held up his DOJ identification while she scrutinized it. After a few seconds, Grimaldi held his up, as well. “I didn’t get notified that someone else from Justice was involved in this investigation.”

“You know our motto,” Grimaldi replied. “Justice never sleeps.”

“Actually,” Bolan said, “we’re here on another matter and just stopped by to lend our support.”

The second FBI agent stepped forward with an extended palm.

“Special Agent Lon Banks,” he said. He looked to be right out of the academy and a few years younger than his distaff partner. They shook.

The barrel-chested sheriff stepped up and offered his hand, too. “I’m Sheriff Wayne Dundee. This has already turned into a multiagency investigation. Glad to have you aboard.”

“Exactly what is the nature of your investigation?” Dylan asked.

“Classified,” Grimaldi said.

“I’m going to have to call my supervisor about this.”

“Let me give you a number that’ll verify us,” Bolan said, taking out his pad and pen. “In the meantime, why don’t we get out of the sun and away from these reporters?”

She looked around and nodded. “Good point.”

They began walking back toward their vehicles.

“Any idea where those two rangers disappeared?” Bolan asked.

She shook her head. “Their last known location was on the highway near the back forty of Camp Freedom.” Dylan smirked. “What an oxymoron.”

“That guy’s a moron, all right,” Grimaldi said. “Oxy or otherwise.”

His quip got a tweak of a smile out of her, but her expression turned serious again. “We were hoping to get permission to check his ranch, or should I say his fortified compound? Fat chance he’d cooperate. The man obviously has some hidden agenda, but what?”

“Do you know anything about those militiamen he’s got backing him up?” Bolan asked.

“Not as much as we’d like to,” she said. They were still in the inner perimeter and about twenty yards from the gaggle of reporters and news cameras. “So, I’ve told you my story. Now, what’s yours?”

After quickly assessing that they were still far enough away from any probing boom mikes, Bolan raised his hand in front of his lips and said quietly, “We’re here attending a desert warfare training seminar.”

The crease between Dylan’s eyebrows deepened again as she canted her head to look at him. “Oh?”

“Washington has some safety concerns about another of the seminar attendees.”

“The Saudi prince?” Dylan whispered.

Bolan nodded.

“I read an informational Bureau memo that he’d be attending,” she said. “But I thought the Secret Service had a contingent accompanying him for protection.”

“They do,” Bolan said. “We’re augmenting them.”